


Lost & Found

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Awakrdness, Della and Donald are confronted with horrible truths, Dewey remains dumb and ignorant, Gen, Meddling Kids, Poor Life Choices, Primal Scene, Riding Crops, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 09:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20863964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Della and Donald make an unanimous parenting decision.Scrooge discovers the importance of locking doors.





	Lost & Found

Only their luck would have Della and Donald find it.

Only their luck, they realized, would worsen their discovery by making it second and third in line.

“Dewey, what are you doing over there?" In the same general direction, they stopped at the sight of their middle child battling imaginary foes in the television room. He was right in the middle of sending Julius the Cat back to the Inkwell. 

He glanced at them, cheeks faintly pink. "I'm doing battle," he admitted sheepishly. "And waiting for Webby to come back from her woodland creature adventure with Lena, Violet, and Huey."

"And Louie?"

"He and Phooey went to a quilting competition."

"Aw, Donald," Della teased. "It's good having time to yourself, as long as you don't spend three weeks in a staring match with yourself."

"We really need to get you to therapy," Donald commented, reluctantly returning to Dewey. His attention strayed on the instrument Dewey gripped. He tilted his head to the side, squinting at the item, brain scratching for clarity. "Dewey," he asked. "What do you have there?"

A wide curved smile, Dewey's obliviousness darkened dawn's sun. "It is the Dewblade, Champion of the West," he declared, extending an arm up. He propped his foot on the second tallest pillow standing on his fort and grinned down at his parents.

“Aw, he's slaying ink demons,” Della cooed. She faced her brother wearing a mother's bright smile. "Isn't that cute? Haven't heard of Julius the Cat in years."

Donald agreed. It was cute, so doubly cute when it came from Dewey. His boys were adorable, but their cuteness factor wasn't what occupied his thoughts. He couldn't stop staring at the item Dewey used as a sword, and he didn't understand why. It was old, worn, innocuous, and knowing their family, was found in the garage. But...Donald couldn't quite catch it...an aberrant familiarity had bonded to the thing. Shaking the feeling was impossible, though he knew he should've.

“I just want to know where he got the riding crop,” he defended, frowning slightly. “I’ve seen it before. I know I have.”

"Oh, right." Dewey jumped off the pillow fort, landing on his feet for once. "My blade," he said proudly. "I found it in Uncle Scrooge's closet. Louie told me about the demon goat dimension, and I thought I could find a demon _something_ too. Unfortunately, there wasn't a demon goat or a demon dimension, but meeting Dewblade has been the best treasure of all."

A definite pause, like a record scratch playing in their heads. Neither looked at the other. Neither could process what occurred. Della snarled in horrified disgust, unable to move as realization dawned. Donald also snarled, almost keeling over in disgust, but he put away his horror to move forward. He sped across the room, snatching the crop out of Dewey's hand.

His movement was a trigger.

“Soap, soap, soap,” Della chanted behind him, dancing on her feet with rising anxiety. “We need to wash his hands. _Soap_.” She pushed Donald aside and grabbed Dewey's wrist. Ignoring the boy's yelps and pleas for an explanation, she spirited him to the kitchen to clean his hands.

“I don’t understand what’s going on," he cried.

"Baby," Della gasped, "one day you will." Warm water rushed out of the faucet. "And you're going to wish you didn't, so trust us when we say you don't want to know."

Thinking of what to do next was redundant. He didn't have to think. He knew what to do, and was in the act of doing it when a voice tumbled downstairs.

“Where’s that blasted thing,” Scrooge grumbled, scratching the side of his head as he ambled into the television room. His sight found Donald in a ready to move position, one foot raised to take him far away. Scrooge's bifocals covered his pupils, but they imagined they had constricted three times their original size.

“Is that -,”

“Yes.”

“And what in Dismal Downs -,”

“Dewey found it in your room. You didn’t put it in the right closet.”

Scrooge’s barrage of insults and criticisms were cut down in an instant. Abrupt silence gave Donald the opportunity to study his uncle's peculiar attire. He'd removed his preferred red coat, black top hat, and trusted cane in favor of simple, silk bedtime robes lined in red and gold. He clutched them tightly with sweat glistening on his knuckles. Admittedly, such an outfit was suitable for an afternoon soak at around three or four o'clock, but they knew his occasional soak was a blip in his memory. Donald heaved, closing his mouth with his free hand, and swallowed the mess down. Their shared silence would've ensued if not for the voice dancing from some undisclosed room above.

“Hoo-di-hoo," she called enticingly. "Scroogey, it's rude to keep a lady waiting."

Scrooge's beak flamed scarlet, and this scarlet extended to his cheeks and whiskers too. Donald's did the same, except curled revulsion was to blame for his discoloring, not his usual anger. Scrooge opened his mouth to say something, but at the last second, he expelled his words into a cough. He cleared his throat and whatever previous thing he planned to speak. 

"May I have it back," he opened his palm, calmly. "I am in need of it."

If it weren't for the situation that called for this behavior, Donald would've fallen into a fit of giggles. His uncle - The Buckaroo of the Badlands, The Terror of Transvaal, and The Argonaut of White Agony Creek - stood before him more embarrassed than a middle school aged boy. His back was straight. His sight was clear. Some displaced dignity surrounded this humiliation, and under usual circumstances, Donald would've taken delight in this. A horror he hadn't felt since he was a middle school aged boy stalled his delight, leaving him sick to the gut.

Donald did the only thing he could do. He returned the riding crop to its owner without as much of a blink.

"Y'should really -,"

“Don’t.”

“Fair enough.”

Scrooge turned and retreated swiftly to his room. Abandoning uncensored imaginations and childhood traumas presumed properly suppressed, Donald gawked at his still semi-clenched hand. The leather implement explored dimensions he'd never heard of. It struck surfaces he could only dream of. He couldn't fathom the number of hands that graced its handle or the moist orifices it tunneled through. At that, yes, Donald blanched.

"Unclean," he whispered. "I am unclean."

The extent of his knowledge ended there. He didn't need to know more.

**Author's Note:**

> Louie's too smart and would've understood the moment he found it.


End file.
